He’s wearing this solemn, innocent face, but I don’t buy it. He’s trying to trick me. His Mom likes it, though. Valerie beams at us like we’re just the cutest thing ever, two kids flirting with each other.
Of course, the moment Gavin asks for help, the conversation around us dies. Sylvie, émile, and Valerie are all staring at me. I finally plop down onto the sofa next to Gavin. I don’t know where to look and can’t figure out what to do with my hands.
“Uh,” I whisper, stalling for a moment. Then, I shrug. I wasn’t actually listening.
“Y’all just keep on talking,” Gavin says.
But Valerie is sweetly certain that I want to flirt with her baby boy. She leans forward from her perch on a little ottoman and whispers in French, “We were talking about going to the Matisse Museum together.” She sits back with a conspiratorial wink.
There’s no way out of this one. They’re all staring at me, waiting. So I turn to Gavin and whisper, “Matisse museum.” The last word trips me up. Three syllables smash themselves together into two.
“Uh, what?” Gavin says, his brows meeting in the middle. He looks uncomfortable, but I’m certain it’s part of his act.
I try again. “The museum,” I repeat. But I’m so nervous the word doesn’t come out any better this time.
Gavin is staring. He blinks a couple of times and his forehead is crinkled. “I’m sorry,” he finally says, “but I can’t understand what you’re saying.”
“The Matisse Museum, dear,” Valerie interjects. She throws me a nervous glance, like she can’t figure out what’s wrong with me. It’s a look I recognize. I mean, I see it all the time.
What it means is: something is wrong with this girl. She’s not normal.
I don’t dare risk a glance at Sylvie or émile. What do they think? Do they understand what’s happening?
“Are you all right, hon?” Valerie murmurs. Her face now wears a look I can’t stand. Pity.
“Fine,” I whisper. Why won’t they just keep talking?
Gavin clears his throat. “She said she was fine. So, anyway, I was thinking that I’d like to try wind surfing. I saw someone doing that yesterday and it looked like a lot of fun.”
Valerie ignores him and goes to sit on her little coffee table so that she’s right in front of me. Our knees practically touch.
She reaches out for one of my hands.
“What’s wrong, Rosemary?” she murmurs in her honeyed voice. “It’s okay, sugar. You’re with friends. You can tell us.”
Is she serious? The woman’s face is inches from mine. Her wine left tiny purple stains at the corners of her mouth. Her pretty face isn’t as young as I’d first thought. The lines show through her makeup.
She squeezes my hand. I can’t take it anymore! First, she practically forces her son on me, and then she puts on this drippy, sugary-sweet act of concern for poor little Rosemary? I tear my hand from her grasp and bolt to my feet. My sudden movement throws Valerie off balance and her glass of wine goes flying.
Shouting at the top of my voice, I scream a phrase that I’ve never used before. Oh, I’ve thought it. Many times. But today it flies out of my mouth before I can stop it. And the sounds twist themselves into a million knots as they leave my mouth. I made myself look totally stupid. Worse, I’ve just shown everyone in the room that I’m a liar. Or that a miracle just occurred and cured my laryngitis.
The silence that settles is the squirming, prickly kind. Everybody shifts around in their seats. Something clatters in the kitchen. Sylvie’s dark eyes are enormous. émile looks sad. Valerie’s mouth hangs open. A dark wine stain spreads over the carpet at her feet.
“She said she was fine, Valerie,” Gavin says, getting to his feet. He walks out of the room and heads down the hall. His voice is angry. “Just leave her alone.”
Sylvie and émile say it’s time to go. I don’t know what excuses they give. It doesn’t really matter.
We walk in silence. My heart pounds and my lungs want to explode. We pass shops closing for the evening and the ugly red and yellow McDonald’s that’s like a splotch of neon paint in a pastel world. We pass palm trees and fountains and churches. There are teenagers on skateboards, lovers strolling hand in hand, old men playing cards. They all look at me; a scrawny teenage girl with long, dark hair and a face twisted with anger, and I hate them. I hate them because they don’t know what it’s like. They’re all normal.
My French parents murmur goodnight and nothing more when I head to my room.
I don’t stay put, though. Instead, I sneak through my wall and enter the apartment behind it. I don’t know why. I just want to be alone there, breathing in the smell of forgotten things.
Maybe that will help me forget.
The bedroom draws me the most. I sit at the dressing table and stare at the spotted mirror. The table is covered with combs, brushes, tiny boxes and bottles.
Out of nowhere, I hear my mother’s voice.